Free The Black Path by Åsa Larsson

theft and abuse cases.
    The moonlight shone like silver, painted onto the shining crust of snow. And above the silver the blue shadows of the trees. The river was sleeping beneath the ice.
    She placed a woolen blanket over the windshield and tucked it inside the front doors so she wouldn’t have to scrape the ice off it the next morning.
    There were lights shining in the windows of the gray cottage that had once belonged to her grandmother. You could almost imagine there was somebody in there waiting for her, but it was just that she’d left the light on herself.
    They were here once, she thought. Daddy and Grandmother. I had everything then. And that’s more than a lot of people have. Some never have it.
    She stood there leaning against the car. Grief overwhelmed her. As if it were some creature that had been lying in wait for her, waiting for her to get out of the car. That’s how it always was. She was always completely unprepared.
    Why can’t I be happy? she thought. Happy that I had them for as long as I did. Nothing is forever. God, it’s so long ago. You can’t grieve forever. There really is something wrong with me.
    The therapist’s words echoed in her ears:
Perhaps you’ve never grieved properly. Perhaps it’s time.
    She was glad she’d given up seeing the therapist. But she missed the Cipramil, perhaps she shouldn’t have come off it. Thoughts of this kind had been easier when she was on medication. The most difficult feelings never quite made it to the surface, somehow. It had been nice not to feel as fragile as an eggshell.
    She pulled off one glove and felt beneath her eyes; no, she wasn’t crying. It was just her breathing. As if she’d been running really fast. Bitterly cold air in her lungs.
    Just calm down, she told herself. Calm down. Don’t go running across to Sivving and Bella, they can’t help you.
    She thought of going in, but remained standing there, unsure if she was about to lock the car, if she had a bag somewhere, and what the key in her hand was for.
    It’ll pass, she said to herself. You’re not to lie down in the snow. It always passes.
    But not this time, said a voice inside her. This time the darkness is coming.
    It was the car key she had in her hand. She locked the door. She managed to pick up her laptop and her Mulberry briefcase, they were by her feet. She walked over to the house.
    On the way up the steps she grabbed a fistful of snow from the railings and pushed it into her face. The key to the house is in the bag. Put it in the lock. Turn it. Take the key out. Open the door.
    She was inside.
    Half an hour later she felt much better. She’d lit the fire, and she heard it suddenly catch as the chimney drew and the wood began to crackle.
    A cup of tea with milk. The laptop on her knee on the sofa.
    She tried to think all the thoughts she’d had in her head before the attack. She felt absolutely fine. She couldn’t bring back the difficult feelings even if she tried.
    And she did try. Played her highest card. Her mother was allowed to take shape inside her head.
    But nothing in particular happened. Rebecka could see her in front of her. The pale gray eyes, face powder that smelled good, nice hair, white, even teeth.
    When she got the sheepskin coat, thought Rebecka, with a crooked smile at the memory. The villagers ground their teeth and wondered who the hell she thought she was. A fur coat, for goodness’ sake.
    What on earth had she actually seen in Rebecka’s father? Maybe she thought a safe harbor was what she longed for. But she was never made for that. Her mother should have hoisted every single ragged sail and set off into the storm with her hair flying. The harbor life wasn’t for her.
    Rebecka tried to remember how things had been when her mother left the family.
    Daddy moved back to Grandmother’s in Kurravaara. He lived on the ground floor and I lived upstairs with Grandmother, running up and down between the two of them. And Jussi. He was a clever dog.